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The Fake Celebrity Sightings of my LA Dreams

3 Jun


Important information right here, people!  Important information!

I’m tired.  And my brain does not want to give me a blog post.  And luckily for you all, I wrote a guest post not too long ago about my four dream LA celebrity sightings and now you get to read it.

Also, I’ve recently taken to bidding for vintage mumu patterns on eBay so there’s that.

On to the fake celebrity sightings of my LA dreams!

1. David Beckham

David is clearly at the top of this list as David is clearly at the top of life.  One of my professors recently said she wanted David to decorate her living room and now I just can’t that glorious visual out of my head.  What a living room!

I imagine I would run into David on the beach.  He, holding a surfboard, me wearing a non-pretentious cover-up that conveyed both personality and sass. He would smile, sensing a connection, but things wouldn’t go too far.   WE BOTH RESPECT VICTORIA.  We would lock eyes, wistfully thinking about what might have been in another life under other circumstances. On my deathbed I would yell, “It was always David!”

2. Stevie Nicks

My meeting with Stevie would take place in some ultra-hippy, possibly communal restaurant where we sat on the floor and vibed with the universe. (Duh.)  Stevie and I would discuss life, love, and the pursuit of proper hair products.  (There has to be a secret to those curls, there just has to be.)

We would also get down to business—what’s her favorite line in Dreams? When did the “witch” label come about?  Exactly how much is she in love with Lindsey Buckingham this very minute? Sigh.  I get excited just thinking about it.

3. Scott Disick

I would meet Scott at Duke’s in Malibu.  He would be drunk (Scott!) and at the bar, holding court.  “Let me buy you a drink!  Join us!” he would say, in that thick New York accent of his.  I would spend the afternoon listening to Scott tell increasingly outlandish stories.

At the end of brunch we would go our separate ways, he to a scolding Kourtney, me to my computer, where I would create a new blog entitled “My encounter with Scott Disick.  One post per minute in his presence.” The blog would be a runaway hit.  I would quit my day job and move to Prince Edward Island.  Scott would have another baby with Kourtney.

 4. Oprah

I would glimpse Oprah at a gas station in Hollywood.  She would be in a limousine (obviously) and someone else would be filling it up (obviously).  I would pay attention to the car only because of the intimidating security guards and the general aura of self-fulfillment coming from its very core.

Just as I was getting curious enough to try to sneak a peek in the car, Oprah would roll her window down and give me a small wave. I would take that moment and turn it into a new life for myself, a life of fulfillment and inner peace and chai tea.

When people asked me what changed, why I was a drastically different person, I would just say, “Oprah” and leave it at that.

Which celebrity encounters do you dream about?

Do you, too, respect Victoria Beckham?


In Which I Almost Encounter Bono, Again

20 May


For those of you concerned that my blog has turned into a Bono fan site where every day from now until forever I quote U2 and talk about how I maybe, sort of, almost should have run into Bono and I’ll never recover because I didn’t, all I have to say is:

Your fears are founded in reality.

I’m renaming this site

I just purchased red sunglasses and am wearing them indoors.

**How long must we sing this song, how long, how long**

Last Saturday was a long, hot, need-to-recover-in-a-dark-room sort of day.  It was Caitlin’s graduation and a tip top occasion, but really a tip top tiring occasion as well.  I spent most of my time fighting traffic in and out of Malibu, sitting in the hot sun, and other such graduation things.

Graduations!  Important, but also! You know?

Saturday night my boyfriend and I were supposed to go out and socialize with some friends.  Drinks on the water.  Happiness and self-actualization.  LA, etc.  I stumbled over to his apartment around 8:00 and said I couldn’t do it. I was far too tired and needed to stay in and drink a glass of water and take three ibuprofen and eat ice cream and watch Veep in a dark room all night.

“That sounds like your equivalent of a bender,” he said, as he got me water and watched me eat a pint of ice cream.  “I’ll miss you.”

“Of course you will,” I said, “now go and leave me to my misery.”

A couple of hours later he sent me a text, “One word: Bono.”


“I told you as soon as I knew,” he said, which, my dear blog readers, was the honest-to-goodness truth.  Sweet, terrible-taste-in-music boy that he is, he didn’t know Paul David by sight.


On the one hand that’s kind of really cute, and the other hand, pull it together, man.

Pull it freaking together.

“Inform me of his every move. I’ll be there ASAP,” I texted and I was out the door, hurtling towards my destiny.  I cranked “Sunday Bloody Sunday” and frantically called Hilary six times.  You see, while I respect Bono as the greatest person alive, as all normal people do, Bono is Hilary’s diva.  Her soul person.

Bono is to her what Mariah Carey is to me.

Plus I was just having a lot of feelings.

All of the feelings.

Feelings everywhere, spilling out, needing to be shared.

A couple of minutes later I got a text from another friend in our group informing me phones were dying and Bono was leaving.

“No!!!!!” I responded, still a full 20 minutes away from Malibu, still a full 20 minutes from my destiny.

“How can this keep happening, my close encounters of the Bono kind?  Why am I so cursed?  Was I born under an unlucky star, is that what this is all about?”


A few hours later I was back in bed with my Veep and my water when my boyfriend texted me, phone functional once more.  I apologized for my rash words and asked him seriously if we could continue in a relationship.

How does it work, really, when one of you has been in the presence of Bono and one hasn’t?  Can we still communicate?  Do we have anything in common anymore?  What does our future look like?

“I love you, Jill,” he said.  “I love your crazy.”

“Yeah?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said.

And then I thought, oh.

That’s how it works.

That’s what our future looks like.

I Survived My First LA Earthquake (I Think)

24 Mar


A couple weekends ago around 8:00pm I was doing the normal things 20-something girls do in LA.  I was in bed watching Frasier by peony candlelight.

I was going to start the next sentence with “in my defense,” but I am not ashamed of this and no defense is necessary.  I was on Season 7 of Frasier and if Daphne and Niles didn’t get together soon my brain was about to explode and to save myself and my hypothalamus, I curled up in The Marshmallow and forged ahead like a brave little toaster.

Two things you should know: The Marshmallow is the name of my bed, thus given because of its color and overall smooshability.  This picture doesn’t quite do it justice, so just imagine what you see is a pit of whipped cream all sugary and light and then multiply the fluffiness by like 300%.

Did that make you hungry, too?

Also, let’s talk about that pillow!  In my recent terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week (that turned into a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad month) I went on a bit of a shopping spree, which is what I tend to do, and I ended up with this pillow and I regret nothing.

Malibu is so big in some respects, (27 miles of coast!) and then so tiny in others (no good pizza!)  This pillow captures all of the Malibu highlights I’ve come to love and love with notable exceptions being the Chipotle and CVS.  But honestly, any pillow that showcased Neptune’s and Paradise Cove really was always going to steal my heart.

So overall, good job Team Pillow!

(I don’t know.)

I do know that one of my goals before I leave Malibu is to visit every place on the pillow and the pillow is taking on all sorts of metaphorical meanings and I can’t stop this train.

And now let’s bring it back to Frasier.   Recently my writing group assigned ourselves Frasier characters because, from what I understand, writing groups mainly exist to support each other’s mental health and discussing Frasier characters fits that bill completely.  Also because the first rule of Writing Group is you do all you can to avoid actually writing.

The second rule of Writing Group is you do all you can to avoid actually writing.

After almost no deliberation, my group decided that Katie is a Frasier (the intelligence) and Hilary is a Martin (the dog) and I am a Niles (the drama).

I can’t tell you how happy this made my soul.  No matter what else happens to me in life I can always cling to this:


(There have to be t-shirts for us out there, right?)

I actually quoted Niles to my mother the other day when she said, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” and I retorted, “Yes, but some people don’t make it out of the first category!”

But you came here for the earthquake not for the drama.

Back to that.

The earthquake situation thingy was all very quick and by even writing this post I’ve made it much more theatrical than it ever was. (You came here for the drama, admit it.)

One second I was throwing pillows at the TV and saying, “HURRY THIS UP ALREADY. I CARE NOTHING ABOUT DONNY AND NEITHER DID YOU AS A WRITER, OBVIOUSLY” and the next second there was this big thud.  Like if I weren’t on the top floor of my building I would have thought a large marble bust had fallen upstairs or something.

(Marble bust? I’ve been reading a lot of Victorian literature lately for school, you’ll have to excuse me.)

I quickly googled, “earthquake” to see if that’s what it was and nothing came up so I assumed I was probably being murdered and someone had broken into my apartment and dropped their marble bust, giving themselves away.  (Slight exaggeration only.)

I blew out my candle, sent some good vibes to the universe, and then got on Twitter where updated information told me that I did, indeed, survive an earthquake.

A 3.2 magnitude earthquake in Marina Del Rey, to be specific.

That’s right, I made it through my first LA earthquake and I didn’t even know it!

I guess this makes me a true Angeleno now.

It only took me a year and a half and seven seasons of Frasier.

The Dennings Do LA

20 Feb

Last week some of my big, curly-haired family came to visit me in LA.


See that?  Wild hair is genetic!  Frizzy Dennings unite! All you needs is curl! Etc.

I tend to write stories about families with a million siblings and more curly hair than one home knows what to do with, and it’s such an obvious, “Wow, Jill, drawing from real life?” thing that it’s almost embarrassing.  But I don’t stop.

Write what you know.

And I know crazy, curly, overalled families.

Other things I know:

1. Teenage angst (and adult angst)

2. Female friendships

3. Feminist girl bands

5. Girls who want to be Stevie Nicks

Also, let’s talk about the whole “write what you know” thing.  I think most of the time, for me, at least, it’s “write what you wish you knew.”  It’s write Ryan Gosling.  It’s write a British boarding school where the lead (who looks and acts suspiciously like I do) falls for a boy named Elvis, the son of a rock star.

Elvis, for Elvis Costello.


But back to my familia.

What I really do know.

Years ago it was decided that I would be the Chief of All Vacation Activities And Other Assorted Tourist Plans in the Denning household, and I have to say, it’s quite a fun role to have.  My mother once said that people come to her and my dad for practical things.  If you need someone to help you move, they are exactly who you’re looking for.

No one has ever called me specifically to help them move.  I’m an adequate mover (I assume), it’s just that it isn’t quite in my range of specialties if you know what I mean.

My parents are pros are day-to-day life.

I’m a pro at being on vacation.

Last week my family ended up at the wax museum in Hollywood (one of my life goals–NO JOKE) and so much happiness ensued.  I will only share one highlight per Denning because, really, you don’t love us that much.

Also some things are special.  Like me and Thor.  That is special and that is secret and that just got weird.

Do you know what else is weird? Me and David Beckham. Gosh, that’s an awkward photo.

And now to pictures allowed on the internet!


Leo.  Leo my love.  Leo, do my burning eyes display my burning passion for your burning soul?  Leo I’ll never let go if you jump I jump Leoooooooooo.

(Fun fact.  My AZ roomie Harry contacted me after I put this picture on Instagram and asked who my new boyfriend was.  I was like, “Do you think I’m dating Leonardo Dicaprio? I love you!” And he was like, “Oh.  I didn’t recognize him.”

Could that fact get any more fun?)


My mother.


Joel was ridiculously on fire this day in a way he’s never been on fire in front of the camera, well, ever. (I’ve been there for 20+ years of family photos with the boy, trust me.)  He then was initiated into the Instagram world.   I don’t think he quite got it, but I also don’t think we’ll be seeing pale pink borders on his pictures anymore so we’ll count that as a win.


Jessica making Hitchock/me proud.

Bonus picture just because I’m a Pink Lady and if you can’t post these pictures on your blog why are you in the blogging game in the first place?


Goodness gracious I love this family of mine, curly hair and all.

I think I’ll keep writing about them.

Curly hair and all.


I’m Juicing

18 Feb


A few weeks ago after a long day on campus and a long night in class I got in my car, turned on Fleetwood Mac and drove straight home.

Not a bite of McDonald’s.

Now, to you people out there who eat your fruits and juice your vegetables like the good citizens of the future, this probably sounds like a normal night.  To me, who quotes Her and refuses to stop, this was the height of oddity.

10PM = Malibu McDonald’s.

It’s the only routine I can even trust in this crazy thing called life.

But wait!  There’s more.

Not only did I skip the McDonald’s (and the Taco Bell. And the other McDonald’s) on this night-from-another-person’s-life, I skipped the McD/TB/McD and then I went home and juiced.

That’s J-U-I-C-E-D, for those of you who don’t live in LA and are not yet under its spell.

I put kale and lemon and beets in a J-U-I-C-E-R and ground it all up and then drank it.

It was T-A-S-T-Y.

(Don’t tell the spicy McChicken.)

I don’t want to go too far here, but after juicing I decided that I was an entirely new person and needed to change my name to commemorate this new identity.

Please call me Zelda The Juicer from now on.

If you mention the video game I will personally see to it that Caitlin hurts you.  I’m trying to reclaim the name Zelda and we can all be part of this, folks.

Now that that’s out of the way.

I’m juicing!  That whole intro was just to tell you that these days you can call me Zelda The Juicer, because I don’t even recognize myself and I’ve made all sorts of healthy changes in my life.

(I will accept congratulations in the form of McDonadl’s gift cards.)

(They are a thing.)

(I got one for Christmas.)

(Thanks Jenna and Andrew.)

I credit these positive steps in my life to two things 1. A lingering Utah cold that made me sound like a baritone with a cough 2. The New Year.

Every year as January 1st rolls around I make a massive list of all I want to do in the next 12 months.  I wouldn’t call these things “resolutions” per say, more like a running document of all I would like to accomplish in the new year.  Some of them are fun things (Ellen, your lottery system can’t outwit me for much longer!) and some of them are rolling things (I will I will I will take a self defense class one day, oh yes I will), but all of them are things.

Things without numbers.

I’m really, really terrible at goals like “Do 74 push ups five times a week taking 30 second breaks between push-ups 40 and 41 and 63 and 64,” but I’m very much for trying something new and learning to take better care of myself.

In 2014 this means experimenting with juicing, I suppose.

And rollerblading.


Oh people you should see me rollerblade, or actually you probably shouldn’t because it’s kind of absurd.  I demonstrated to Caitlin as I left her apartment and she just rolled her eyes at me and said, “That’s a visual I won’t soon forget.” This may have been because I was reenacting it with a 7-foot surfboard and mini dress, WHO KNOWS, but whatever the case when I rollerblade I sashay my hips and it’s a visual people don’t forget.

Also, I can’t stop.

Not as in “can’t stop won’t stop,” just simply “can’t stop will hopefully learn to stop before I topple down a mountain on rollerblades.”

I have to say, maybe it’s the kale speaking, or maybe it’s the endrophines from the rollerblading injuries (those give endorphins, right?), but so far 2014 has been the greatest.


(For those of you who don’t live in LA.)

February In Photos, Or Something

12 Feb

Recently my brother said that it seemed like my life was pretty good right now, and I said, well, yes.  Yes, it is.


MySpace angles courtesy of Caitlin.  Do we look 14? I felt 14 walking around in our cutoffs and graphic tees and messy hair.


Pizza on the beach, or the magic of Newport. (Can you spot Cait’s foot?  Very Where’s Waldo)


Perfect clouds because it’s Malibu.


A terrible shot of the Pepperdine deer as seen through Hilary’s car.  I went back to try to capture a perfect picture of the moment, and it had already passed.    There’s a life lesson there somewhere.


Writers group selfies at a gloomy Getty Villa plus the beginning of my feminist sketch comedy career.


The Sweethearts I almost bought myself for Valentine’s day. Still regretting I didn’t.


The Yeti + John Lennon sunglasses. (I was recently told my celebrity lookalike is John Lennon, so you know I’m doing something right.)


The view from the best bagels in the world, let us not argue over this point.


Snapchats from Jordan that I screenshot and put on my blog (hehe)


The Price is Right + Gilmore Girls (And that NASA shirt!  The show said we could not wear any brand/logo/etc. and we thought Star Wars might fall under that and so we went with NASA and it was all a mistake.  ALL A MISTAKE.)


Pepperdine going all beautiful on us.


This is

LACMA, yo.


Palm trees. Always palm trees on my phone.

Annnnd one more Malibu photo just for good luck.


February, you’ve been good to me.  Let’s keep this up.


27 Jan


In this, my last semester at Pepperdine, I made a bucket list of all the things I need to do before I leave the City of Broken Dreams.

(I looked up LA nicknames and decided City of Broken Dreams was the most dramatic and therefore most appropriate for this blog post/my life.)

My LA bucket list is exactly what you would imagine it to be.  I would like to sit on the bench Zooey and JGL sat on in 500 Days of Summer.  I want to go on The Price Is Right (but really hope I’m not called up.  Wait, how does that even work?  Is that a possibility?  I’m going Wednesday!)  I have all sorts of equally important odds and ends I want to do and so Saturday, armed with three fabulous female companions—I checked off three.

First was the DVF Journey of a Dress exhibit at LACMA.


afterlight-22 afterlight-21

I have to say, this might be the best museum exhibit I’ve ever seen.  So much pink!  So many movie stars! So many blue sequined dresses to wear to future Academy Awards ceremonies!  Also, Oprah went recently so it was like her special Oprah fairy dust had been left behind and everything was heightened and empowering.

As Oprah does.

Here I am with Tresa, trying to work it for the camera, but failing.  It was a bit embarrassing, because moments before two older women stood in front of the same backdrop and absolutely slayed their photos.  We aspire to be them.


And here we are in the picture that confirms what I’ve known all along: I not only talk with my hands, I talk with my full body.  I’m a body contortionist.  Rob says he’s convinced somewhere in my ancestry is some Italian.


We then went to DASH, because you knew that had to happen at some point in my LA time.


DASH was not my vibe, clothing-wise, but I did get to smell all the Kardashian perfumes and I did find out they sell their own WATER.

Here is Tresa, long-last Kardashian sister modeling with said water.


Oh and here is the reason DASH exists.  (For the huge K-Dash fans, I did take a picture of the Arthur George socks but there were some, er, inappropriate words on some of them so I decided against posting.)


I really wanted to get a paparazzi style shot of Tresa outside Dash so I could post with the caption, “Khloe or Tresa?” but the store set up just is not conducive to those types of shots.

I also wanted to enter the store and say loudly, “She would like to be left alone while she shops privately with her non-famous friends,” but alas, I didn’t get the opportunity to do that either.

So DASH was not a fail, but not quite a success either.

And then it was on to InvenTORI!

I need to just say this and then move forward with my life:

I am Tori Spelling’s #2 fan.

I can’t claim the #1 slot, because there is this man who arrives to all her events wearing his Tori Spelling #1 fan gear and Tori knows him by name and refers to him as her #1 fan, but I think #2 seems like a safe bet.  I own all 10 seasons of 90210 and I have seen every episode of her reality show and I almost skipped class last semester to go to her crafting event at a local Jo-Ann Fabric.

Also I have a Donna Martin Graduates shirt, which is just plain dedication.

I’ve been looking forward to my InvenTORI adventure for quite some time. (Would I see Tori?  Dean?  What antique item would I buy and display prominently in my home under a sign, “Donna Martin likes this!”)  So much excitement!

You can imagine my devastation when I saw this:



Unfortunately Tori’s reality show is off the air (what the what?) so I don’t know specifics about the store, but I am hugely disappointed and also sending positive vibes to her and her family.

And now I’ve reached the end of this blog post here, and realized that I almost never do the “hey here’s a recap of my day” posts and have no idea how to end this thing so…

Tori Spelling’s #2 fan, signing off and returning to the City of Broken Dreams.

That should do it.

The Most Beautiful Place I Have Ever Been

23 Jan

afterlight-14 afterlight-13 afterlight-12photo-202afterlight-10 photo-201

It was the sort of night I had dreamt about when I imagined living in London.  The pub was dim and warm, the waiter was accented and straight out of a rom com, and I was riding the high of a Broadway musical.  I sat in the middle of a group of giggly girls and shared nachos sand swapped travel stories.

“Fiji” I said. I scooped up another chip.  “Fiji is 100% the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.  Did you know that there are no waves in Fiji?  There’s this coral reef barrier and so the water is just like a huge, turquoise swimming pool.  Fiji, Fiji, Fiji.”

Elisa piped up, “Venice is the most stunning place on earth, my lovelies, also stop eating all the chips.”

And the conversation continued.  Round and round we debated the most beautiful location in the world.  The English countryside.  The south of France.  Tropical islands.

Our waiter hovered, as waiters tend to do with groups of 20-something giggly girls, and soon he was part of the conversation.  “Where are you ladies from?” he asked.  “Utah” Elisa and I chimed.  “Ah, Utah” he said in that glorious accent.  “Well, you know, the most beautiful place I’ve ever been is Zion National Park.”

Elisa and I exchanged looks.  “Yeah, Zion is great,” I said, “But come on.  You live in Europe!”  Rom Com Waiter laughed and despite my impassioned nacho-fueled arguments, he maintained that Utah was the prettiest place he had ever been.

I asked Elisa this week if she remembered this story from nearly three years ago and she said, “Of course I remember! Memories with you in them are hard to forget.”

Oh Elisa, my lovely.

This conversation with Rom Com Waiter always kind of stuck with me.  I found it so odd that a man who lived in one of the grandest places on earth thought UTAH was the most beautiful place he had ever seen.

Boring old Utah.

There’s something about living in a place that takes away its magic.  It’s why Caitlin and I reserve Newport for especially bad days.  Newport is bottled lightning.  It’s like the sun shines a little brighter and the water sparkles a bit more and the pizza is just that much gooier than any pizza you can get near home.

But sustained Newport is out of the question.  Sustained Newport is average Newport and we want Newport to always be charmed and yellow and exciting.

I find that I take the beauty of LA for granted.  Malibu knocks me off my feet again and again, but LA and I have a complicated relationship.  I hate paying $40 to sit my car in a lot for an hour, I just do.  Traffic gives me anxiety and shreds my hair.  Parallel parking is the bane of my existence.

But then some days I am privileged with an hour to kill and I rollerblade along the pier right by my house and it’s foggy and grey and all I can think is, “This is the most beautiful place I have ever been.”

And for that moment, it is.

Chocolate-Covered Macaroons

12 Dec


Today Hilary and I did a dramatic reading of the Bridget Jones’s Diary script.

We sat in the upper corner of the Payson library, I wrapped my scarf around my head “in the manner of Grace Kelly,” and we read in loud, obnoxious British accents to the empty room (and Rob, who put in his headphones, because he’s an only child and doesn’t know how to deal with annoying little sisters.)

I took the Bridget role and Hilary took every other part, and my goodness you know something too well when the script you read from does not have character names, just dialogue, and you still never miss a beat.

Also, whoa Hilary, I don’t want to speak too soon, but Academy Award nod for your Pamela Jones performance?

I think so.

Rob asked us why we didn’t just watch the film aka why are you girls so crazy, and Hilary gave him a look and said, “Umm, Rob we’ve seen the film a million times.  This is more fun.”

It’s been one of those weeks.  A week of finals and craziness.  A week after the week I had to finish my book in 2AM sessions.

At the end of these types of weeks, reading the Bridget Jones’s Diary script out loud with a crazy headscarf seems only appropriate.

Tomorrow I head back to Utah and head back to Christmas.  Something about living in LA has meant that Christmas is lost in perfect weather and palm trees.  I’ve tried to feel festive and even thrown on tights with my dress + ankle boots uniform lately, but that’s really more ceremonial than anything.

I haven’t set up a tree.  I barely listen to Christmas music. No amount of coconut macaroon hot chocolate is putting me in the mood this year.

If Salt Lake can’t change this nothing can.

And now I need to say something about macaroons.

There is a line in The Holiday where Jack Black says, “And those chocolate-covered macaroons. Delectable.”

This is one of my most-quoted movie lines, ever.

Last year when Cait and I were watching The Holiday, I expressed how Jack Black is the weak link for me in the film.  All other characters I believe and love (oh hey, Judeeee), but Jack?


Cait argued pro Jack and soon things got…okay, not heated, because who really cares?  But then Jack said the chocolate macaroons line and we both just burst out laughing.

His tone, his delivery.  It was over the top, and Cait immediately gave up her argument, because chocolate-covered macaroons.

It’s the type of thing that’s probably only interesting to the two of us, but now every time I hear macaroon I think of that movie and I wish I was a person who knew how to make gifs because that’s what I should be looking at every day.

Also, the pronunciation of gif!  Let’s talk later.

Yesterday I ordered a pair of black ankle boots, and I know what you are thinking, “Jill, did you need those?” and the answer is yes.  All I want/need in my life are ankle boots and every shoe in my closet that does not fit the bill feels completely unnecessary/burdensome and I want to return them all and get the money back and then buy more ankle boots.

This is my mindset and I’m not changing it.

You should know I started this post as a 2013 music post, so that’s about where my mind is.

Happy end of finals to you all!  I hope you have a Hilary in your life that you can do a dramatic Bridget reading with, or at the very least I hope you eat a lot of macaroons.

Chocolate-covered macaroons.


The Getty Villa

11 Nov


Once every few months or so I pull out my camera and decide it’s time to practice taking pictures/being a blogger.

I bought my camera shortly before I moved to London, in a delightful time in my life where I was working full time and could buy things like fancy cameras.  I had a one-on-one session with the camera guy where he said a whole bunch of things that made absolutely no sense to me, and proceeded to take pictures on Auto for at least a year.

To this day, my camera continues to perplex and frustrate me.  Shouldn’t I be smart enough to handle settings and flashes and whatsits?

Shouldn’t it be more intuitive?

I think, in reality, photography is another aspect of my life that I haven’t devoted very much time to and thus just write it off as “not for me.”  I was having a conversation with my brother recently about how I’m terrible at real life things like printers and health insurance and such and he kind of laughed and said, “Jill, no one’s inherently good at these things.  You have to practice.”  Then he pointed out how I spend zero energy on “real life” tasks, and thus my real life skill level is exactly what I’ve put into it.


Common sense.

This is not for me.